Advice for the King
by SurelyForth
Summary: Showing impaired judgement, King Alistair turns to Anders and Warden-Commander Ron Mahariel for advice on how he should handle his future queen's feisty advances. Prompt fill for BSN, rated T for suggestiveness.


**Note from SF: **Prompt fill for the Anders thread on the BSN. This week it's The First..., courtesy of Miri1984, who rocks.

BioWare owns these guys, I just like to embarass them sometimes. Well, except for Ron F. Mahariel. That guy is unflappable.

* * *

"So you're telling me that the King of Ferelden is a…" Anders searched the ceiling for a word that was just not coming to mind so _ridiculous_ was the situation. "He's a _virgin_? Is he _five_?"

"I _am_ right here, you know," Alistair scowled at the mage. "Ron, did you really have to invite _him_ to this? Oghren was bad enough. Well, before he passed out."

Anders lolled his head to look at his commander and was profoundly unsurprised to see that he wore his usual expression of bemused detachment.

"I couldn't invite everyone _but_ him," Ron shrugged and tugged thoughtfully at a loose strand of black hair. "And, to be fair to Anders, _you're_ the one who keeps asking for advice on how to handle...things."

Alistair sank back against the plush settee, his scowl intensifying and his cheeks turning a most delightful shade of pink. Anders couldn't help but smile at his king's misfortune, because it was the sort of misfortune that wasn't misfortune _at all_.

"Oh, listen to you! 'I'm a king and my beautiful betrothed wants to do all sorts of depraved things to me'," Anders stretched languidly and sat up, one arm flopping across Alistair's shoulders. He ignored the pointed look that clearly said _what do you mean, with the _touching_?_ "This is what you need to do: take her to a semi-secluded location, get naked, mostly naked, or at least _exposed_, find something to grab onto and just _go_ for it. And by _it_ I mean..."

"Anders," Ron had one eyebrow raised in as close to disapproval as the elf came. "You are about to give Alistair a _coronary_."

Alistair did seem to have gone a bit pale at the mention of _naked_ and _exposed_.

"You have got to be kidding me!" Anders pulled his arm away like he might catch something. "You're really that _repressed_? I thought being a king was all busty courtesans and naughty maids and _orgies_ after tea."

"I was raised in the _Chantry_," Alistair was back to furious blushing. "I was going to be a _templar_...they think it unwise to teach us how to..._woo_ a woman only to take away the option the moment we take our vows."

"And after you left you never once thought to, you know, _go for it_? I can think of about ten ways _you _could get it with no effort, and I'm incredibly _drunk_. Actually, being drunk might account for _five_ of those..."

"I just want it to be better than..." Alistair's hands went out and he was making _the_ most _awkward_ grabby gestures with his fingers.

Anders didn't even know...his eyes met Ron's and he was glad to see _this_ had gotten a concerned reaction, at least.

"I'm blaming _you_ for his continued inexperience," Anders tilted his head, wondering why _he_ should blame anyone at all. "Or maybe Lady Cousland should blame you for the fact that she's marrying a man who thinks he should approach her chest like it's a giant _abacus_."

"Ron's first time wasn't until the Blight," Alistair took a moment away from staring at his hands in horror to point this out. "Although I always imagined it went something like 'Shut up, elf, and get in my tent' followed by 10 minutes of _black_."

"So I told you?" Ron was smiling when said this. "And, actually, she told me that her tent was cold."

"Really? And you _fell_ for that?" Alistair shuddered. "You are lucky to be alive."

From what Anders had heard of his commander's former lover, Ron was just _lucky_.

"That's your problem, your majesty," it took Anders a moment to find the edge of the settee so he could command a little more attention. "You're _supposed_ to fall for it. When you're eating dinner and Lady Cousland grabs your knee..."

"Thigh. _Upper_ thigh. Actually, I don't think the part of the leg she was going for qualifies as _leg_ anymore. But continue."

"You're supposed to acknowledge it, and _encourage_ it. Stop thinking about what Sister Coldfish told you about touching when you were eleven, and think about the _hand_ and where it's going and where it _wants_ to go."

"And..._let_ it?" The king's voice was a squeak, his knees discreetly shifting.

"You mean let her grope you right there at the table?" Anders snorted. "I think that beardy man who is always buzzing around you might find it inappropriate, but you _are_ the king. So sure! But really, you just need to stop worrying about your hands, and being _bad_ at it, because that _will_ make you bad at it. And outside of poking her eye out or setting her hair on fire, it's all very _foolproof_."

"And if she's half as into you as she _seems_ to be, chances are she'll forgive you if you're a little awkward...or slobbery."

"I hadn't thought about _slobber_," Alistair sank even further onto the settee. "Maybe I should just resign myself to the fact that my wife is going to have a constant stream of lovers because I _drooled_ on her."

"Or maybe you can stop being self-defeating and ask Anders about _his_ first time," Ron smirked triumphantly, happy to be able to deflect things back onto the mage. Anders glared at him. "Hey,_ you're _the one who mentioned setting someone on fire."

"Not _someone_," Anders leaned back, mimicking Alistair's formerly forlorn posture. Of course, now the king was looking positively gleeful. "It was just her hair. Not...anything else. What? I was still an apprentice, she was already a mage and had a whole bag of tricks I'd never even _dreamt_ of. Very intense_ things_ happened and my fingertips may have caught on fire. A lot. While all _tangled_ up in her hair."

"See, Alistair? Drool can just be wiped away, at least there's no chance for permanent damage," Ron looked at Anders, the expression in his grey eyes one of gratitude because Alistair appeared _immensely_ relieved. "And I can't see your future wife holding out on you for...how long was it before you could convince another woman in the tower to let you _touch_ them?"

Anders _seriously _disliked his commander sometimes. Him and his stupid _memory_.

"I refuse to answer that," Anders glowered and tried not to think about those four years when he got more when he _escaped_ than he did _in_ the tower. "And I expect a handsome gift from our future queen if you _do _ever manage to seal the deal."

"Oh, of course. With a note that reads 'And I especially appreciate that he lit _candles _to set the mood, and not me'," Alistair and Ron both chuckled over this for far too long.

Anders flung himself back on the settee and decided then that, king and commander or no, he felt perfectly justified in hating them _both_.


End file.
